(Announcing a new feature of Alaina Mabaso’s Blog: the Weekly Poem. I’m going to write a poem once a week, and unlike other poets, I will never leave you wondering what my poem is about, even if you like the way it sounds.)
Get The Hell Off My Bumper
I reserve my most volatile day-to-day hate
For you drips who think it’s ok to tailgate.
I think driving laws are really quite handy.
But you’re close as a toddler who thought he saw candy.
Forgive me for 70 in the 65 zone.
I’m in the right lane, take the left for your own.
The Beltway is hellish enough by itself.
Why be a prick of the very top shelf?
Shall I list all the reasons you make my blood boil?
Why you make others’ travels such horrible toil?
First there’s your arrogance, plain as the day:
“Fuck safety rules, I’m driving my way!”
Next is your callousness, you unholy ass:
You’d rather endanger me than simply pass.
Your foresight and dignity amount to a speck.
Don’t you know that you’re courting a terrible wreck?
If you’re tailgating me, what should I do?
Drive even faster and burn up my fuel?
Drive very slowly and hope you don’t linger,
Finally passing while you give me the finger?
Tap on my brakes just to scare you a bit –
Hope to teach you a lesson without getting hit.
Or grimly ignore you and maintain my speed,
Praying a deer doesn’t jump in the street.
Whatever it is that I do or don’t do,
I hate that I’m bugged by a numbskull like you.
If I said I wished you some physical pain
My kindly veneer I couldn’t maintain.
But I do wish that next time you’re making a drive
Of four working tires you are deprived.
I hope one goes flat on a desolate highway.
And you don’t have a spare.
Then only mechanic in 90 miles charges you
$1,400 for a new tire and brake pads.
But the work takes till tomorrow
And your motel room is infested with
Bedbugs and then the only thing
There is to eat is the free continental breakfast.
Then when you’re speeding the next day
To make up lost time, you get pulled over
And get a whopping ticket and then
It’s the last straw for your insurance policy
And your rates go way up.
But however terrible this’d be to you,
It’s a picnic compared to what I go through
When you won’t get the hell off my bumper.